


As It Was

by divineguts



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Ghost!Tim Stoker, M/M, TMA Season 5
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-30
Updated: 2020-03-30
Packaged: 2021-02-28 22:35:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 706
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23394877
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/divineguts/pseuds/divineguts
Summary: "I could be. You could make me real." His eyes shimmer. They're not his and you Know this."I could," you realize."--And I'd be the same."Jonathan Sims has set off the apocalypse. The Eye has something to share with him. Someone.
Relationships: Jonathan Sims/Tim Stoker, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims
Comments: 4
Kudos: 47





	As It Was

"You're not real," you say.

He smiles, crosses his arms like he always did, like he's going to make a joke, like he's going to wink.

"I could be. You could _make_ me real." His eyes shimmer. They're not his and you Know this.

"I could," you realize.

"--And I'd be the same."

"You wouldn't." You Know this, too. Know the limits of your own creation, the limits of your memory, the limits of--

"I would be what you want me to be." His smile is a little different, you notice. It's weak, not cheeky and playful. Pained.

"What I want you to be?" He sighs at you, steps a little closer. He _is_ the same, mostly. The same as the last time you saw him: freckles, scars, hair slightly singed in a way that reminds you of violence, of screaming. Burning plastic and metal.

"Wanted. Sorry." That's more like him. He laughs a little. And maybe you do, too. Or you frown-- That isn't funny. It tastes good, though. Seeing that memory through his eyes is a meal of pure and divine human fear, hopelessness. You Saw it all already, though. He snaps his fingers in front of your face.

"Eyes are up here," and he's rolling them, running that same hand through curls you've only touched a handful of times-- ones you'll never touch again. You _won't._

"Sorry--" You start and he leans closer, examines your face like you might be a painting in a gallery.

"Lots of them now." He points to his own dark eyes. You swallow hard, almost want to hide. But he knows you. Knew you, maybe.

"Well, being inhuman has--"

"Perks?" He offers.

"Its effects," You supply curtly. He snickers.

"So?"

"I'm not a god." Maybe you're not, not really. You serve one, by no choice other than existence, feed off of its prey like the young of a predator might.

"Ah. Not yet." He grins. It is _wrong_. You Know it is, but-- "But you could be, Jon."

* * *

Martin doesn't see him. Doesn't See him, you suppose. That's the only way you can.

"Finally paid him some mind then," He snorts and your stomach twists.

"Like you care," You bite back. Shit. That's not what you wanted to say. But it's always like this with him.

"I did. I just," He actually looks away from you. He doesn't usually. He's always... Drinking you in. Like you're the only thing he wants to see. It tracks though, you tell yourself. You live in a world destroyed. You hold the hammer, struck the match.

"That was--"

"Mean?"

"Unfair," you frown.

"When did you ever care about being fair to me?" Ah.

That _is_ fair. In a way.

So he's Tim. Or something that thinks they are. Not a ghost, you won't think about the implications of that. Something that carries pieces of him and drops them on you like little pebbles skipped across a lake. And his presence feels like fury. Sure-- Tim felt like that in his worst moments, like maybe some amount of righteous anger ever had a chance of saving him.

It didn't. 

It _did_ save you. In a way.

But it's the most concentrated rage you've ever felt. And you've felt. A lot. Between Melanie, statements of the Slaughter, from the Stranger's anger when Tim--

"You going to be doing that a lot?"

"Wha--?" You come back to yourself and you're sitting.

You've sat vigil in this armchair by the window for. Days? Weeks? It's hard to keep track.

"Looking at me like. That." He motions towards your face from where he's perched at the sill, ankle crossed over the opposite knee. Like he's nearly real, like you could reach out and touch him.

Ah. You were Looking. And he could tell. Can _always_ tell now. You just thought--

"If I could See what you're meant to-- What I'm supposed to--" You can't string the words, can't make him a tool, not again, you can't, you _can't._

"It's a choice. A choice for you to make. I think that's it." He scoffs. "A little rude to not be consulted on the terms of your own, what? Resurrection?" And he spreads his hands wide, "Second chances, right?"

**Author's Note:**

> This is set somewhere post-Watcher's Crown and Eye-Pocalypse, obviously without knowledge of the events that will occur in Season 5. I just miss Tim Stoker, okay? This is just a snippet/start of a fic, but if there's any interest I'd definitely be down to write more!! 
> 
> MESSAGE TO ALL TMA FANS, FOR THE LOVE OF GOD STAY SAFE!!!!!!!


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